


Bone Tired

by HarleyMischief



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pain, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:44:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9355739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarleyMischief/pseuds/HarleyMischief
Summary: John is tired. Bone tired.Sherlock is taking everything and John isn't sure he has much of anything left.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Quite vivid descriptions of cocaine withdrawal. A little squicky.

John Watson was compact. He was like a swiss army knife - outwardly ordinary but full of all kinds of useful tricks and also dangerous when used with the right inclination. He wasn't pretty or delicate. He wasn't the kind of person who enjoyed watching nature documentaries or discussing politics.

John Watson didn't like people who turned up to house parties without a bottle of wine. He didn't appreciate it when people told lies although on equal terms he hated the truth when it was told for negative reasons. He was a skilled doctor and he had been a skilled soldier. John Watson had killed nine men and he felt guilt about three of those though he didn't regret any of them. He owned a Browning L9A1 British service issue hand gun - the license had expired.

John Watson resided inside of 221b Baker Street and he rather liked it. He liked the centralised location which was close to the GP surgery and not very close to his sisters apartment. He liked the cafe downstairs and the Chinese take away just down the street. John Watson liked the landlady and the way she prepared tea but not the way she hovered. John Watson was fond of the open fireplace and his chair that sat just in front of it. He was fond of the bad wallpaper and the consistent scent of sulphur that hung faintly in the kitchen.

John Watson had never listened to much classical music but now he found himself pleasantly in awe of violin compositions. He liked buttered tea cakes that weren't too toasted and he did not like sugar in his coffee.   John had recently discovered a preference for pure cotton over a polymer mix. He payed his portion of the rent on time and did not worry about the bills because they disappeared at regular intervals without any consequence. John neither liked nor disliked Mycroft Holmes. John was fond of Greg Lestrade though occasionally disappointed by his disregard and willingness to ignore the behaviour of his colleagues.

John did not like the word freak. He had smoked pot four times in his life and never taken anything harder. John Watson hated cocaine in all of its forms. He hated antique syringes and pale skin and small evident bruises. He hated rubber tube tourniquets and dressing gown ties and anything else that could be easily knotted around someone's upper arm. He hated prominent blue green veins. John Watson hated vacant looks and cool sweats. He hated racing heart beats and dilated pupils in one way and loved them in another. He both loved and hated the scent of cigarette smoke. John Watson was tired. Really just - bone tired. Of this. 

 

The air in the room was tight, he'd recently painted the walls in a fit of energy but had ended up splashing olive green upon the white ceiling and across the hard wood floor. Sherlock felt the air from the window draw like a blunt pencil over his skin - the heat was a thick scratch of a scorching needle and the sheets he lay upon were sodden with his sweat.

The room smelt dank and sour like his breath. When he hadn't washed for an undeterminable amount of time. A waste of time. He shook - his hands were tense claws against the bedsheets. His breathing was shallow, lungs rattling like pill bottles. Mycroft had offered to be there. Sherlock had refused.

His usually well manicured nails were dirty - dead skin from scratching his dry scalp, flecks of dried green paint and little traces of blood. His eyes were red and the sounds of the room and the world beyond condensed to nothing more than the movement of a train flying over a bridge - making the tunnel beneath shake and echoes bounce. The time on the electronic alarm clock on his bedside table was a blur of red numbers - he was dehydrated. Sherlock turned his head to the side and grunted, reaching vaguely for the glass of water that had been placed somewhere by the bed - some time ago.

"Wait."

Wait? For what? He shook his head but in the next moment a hand was resting beneath it lifting him just enough that he could take a sip from the cup being held to his dry bottom lip without choking on it. Some of the fluid dribbled down his chin to his throat. It felt like ice. His throat was soothed some and he rested back down against the pillow. Sherlock sniffed, his hands now palm up, fingers twitching. 

"Please." Sherlock croaked. 

No response. 

"Please."

The sound of chair legs scraping on hard wood, the bed near his knees dipped. His fogged brain couldn't make the connection coherent. A cool hand pressed to the now see-through sweat stained off white t-shirt covering his chest. 

"No." The voice was firm. Pained.

"Stop asking."

 

John didn't hate the stench of vomit or urine - it was something he had gotten over a long time ago. John Watson could handle the stench of sweat and dried blood. Fresh paint gave him a head ache. John Watson liked things to be neat and orderly. He liked to be firm when he answered questions. He appreciated manners but knew there were circumstances in which missing a please or a thank you could be forgiven.

John Watson did not like sadness. he did not like seeing strong souls broken. John Watson did not hate addicts. He did hate addictions. John Watson did not mind cleaning up soiled sheets. He did not mind dressing or undressing someone who could not manage it themselves.

John Watson liked blue but those sheets were currently in the washing machine. John Watson didn't like sitting on hard wooden chairs. He often needed to walk around around to prevent his leg from getting stiff - psychosomatic or not. John Watson did not like saying no to people but he would say it often - even always if he had too. John Watson was tired. really - bone tired. Of this. 

 

The heat had subsided after a few hours (days?) He was still dehydrated, still being handed fluids at intervals. He was still filthy - but his clothes were clean. Sherlock had thrown up over the right side of the bed, the thick bile had stung as it rose from his dry throat and his cracked lips. The spiders had gone - the aching crawling sensation as eight legged creature punctured his skin with every little step. Incy wincy spider...

He had been sleeping - on and off. Dreaming vaguely of colours and non-descript shapes. His stomach ached but he didn't want to eat. The chair in the corner of the room was still there, it's occupant was resting awkwardly against a pillow shoved between their head and the wall. He was sleep - breathing steady and deep. Sherlock coughed. The occupant of the chair did not stir. After an unknown amount of time he slowly sat up - he slowly shook of the dizzy spin with a quick blink and adjusted himself to his new position.

Sherlock took the fresh glass of water from the side and drank from it - appreciating every second it trickled down the sandpaper that had replaced the lining of his throat. It was cold - suddenly. But not as before. not enough to make him shake. The memories were vague. The clock read 18:57. It was starting to get dark outside. He stood up and the bed creaked but the person in the chair did not move. Sherlock wondered how long it had been since he had slept. He wondered briefly if he should wake him up to avoid the trouble of him having a crick in his neck. Sherlock did not want to talk yet so he walked passed the chair and out into the living room. It had been hardly used for at least a week - he switched on the TV and muted the sound, checking the date. Nine days. He felt like death.

Sherlock picked up the unopened post on the coffee table but put it back down before reading it. He looked in to the kitchen. The milk was sour and the majority of the cupboards were empty. There were several pieces of plain toast set out on a plate. Sherlock wasn't fond of toast. 

 

John Watson did not like the sensation of rising panic. He did not like waking up and seeing an empty bed. He was reasonably easy going until he truly invested his time in something.

John Watson had quick reflexes although occasionally he jumped to the wrong conclusion. He liked knowing what was going on. He liked knowing if a patient had been moved or had taken off at some point. John Watson hated weakness in himself but understood it in others. He hated that his mind had given in to sleep when it was needed else where. John hated how dry his hands were. He hated that his stomach hurt from how hungry he was. John Watson understood why someone might despise the nature of their 'transport.'

John Watson hated standing up after sleeping in an awkward position. He hated the first few steps. John Watson did not like surprises or opening a door with no knowledge of what he would find on the other side. 

 

He heard the door open and felt as if he had been caught doing something untoward. Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen and back into the living room. It was awkward - they were standing perhaps seven and a half feet away from one another. He was waiting for John to speak. He imagined that John was waiting for an apology. 

"I'm sorry - " Sherlock started, interrupted before he could continue. 

"Yeah well - It's going to take a long conversation. Not just a sorry and - "

Sherlock cut him off. 

"No. I'm sorry I didn't wake you. I knew you would have a stiff neck if you slept in that position. But I wanted to avoid this so..."

He caught the momentary flash of anger in John's eyes, the way his hands tighten to fists by his sides. John Watson was compact. He was dangerous. 

"That isn't to say I'm not grateful." He swallowed.

Sherlock could feel the nape of his neck becoming damp with sweat, his palms sticky. Sherlock was suddenly too aware of his empty stomach, of his filthy itching skin. Of how bad he must smell. 

"I need to shower." He said.

"Yeah well - that's something i agree with a hundred percent." John paused. "You don't even remember half of it do you?"

Sherlock heard disappointment. He ignored it. 

"Nowhere near half, I'm afraid."

He opened his mouth to say something else - to follow up with something funny to break the tension but he;d never been very good at that. John looked to angry for it to be successful anyway. 

"You're a doctor, you can't have expected anything else."

"Yeah well, you're not a normal patient are you."

"I'm not your patient John."

"No? Then why was I the one wiping vomit off of your chin then huh? or changing the bed sheets or your clothes" John snapped.

Sherlock stilled and felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. 

"You're my friend. That's what friends do."

"Sherlock that's - that's really not. You think I'd do that for Greg? Or even my sister...No. Just - No." John sighed.

Sherlock looked away again.

"I need a shower." 

He felt nauseous again. Probably would for a few more days. Though he hadn't had to deal with the worst of it - or that he had but he had only vague memories of it. 

"Do you want me to sit with you - incase you fall or..."

"No. I'll be quite alright. You've done enough,"

Sherlock offered a tight, unconvincing smile and strode past - trying to look graceful despite the state of his appearance - the scratching beard on his face and the sickening stench of sweat. He locked the door to the bathroom and turned on the shower, watching the steam rise for a long time before he finally took a step to place himself beneath it. 

 

John Watson didn't mind cleaning up after people. He liked organising things. John Watson hated spending time on something only to have his work undone. He didn't mind being shouted at if it was justified. He liked hot baths.

He liked standing in the shower until the water started turning cold and his olive skin was wrinkled at the finger tips. He liked listening to make sure people were safe. He didn't like having a stiff back from leaning against a close door but sometimes it was necessary. He enjoyed listening to the sound of the shower as it fell - like rain on the window when he was inside in the warm. John Watson would like to not worry about somethings. He would like to be appreciated. He thinks that perhaps he is.

John Watson wasn't sure he would ever be able to love some enough but now he is absolutely sure he does. John Watson never thought any one would love him enough - he still wasn't sure if they ever would. He liked apologies if they were genuine. He liked the sound of someone enjoying hot water on their muscles. John Watson enjoyed the sound of smooth movement after days of jarring and unsteady. But he was still tired. Really - bone tired. Of this. 

 

 

 


	2. Interval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's falls down. John keeps struggling to pick him up. They are both more than a little broken.

John liked knowing what to expect. He liked having previous knowledge of his surroundings. He did not like locked doors or areas of the city he’d never passed through before. John did not like the sinking feeling in his stomach or the smell of stale piss when he finally kicked past the door. John did not appreciate the debris on the floor cracking under the sole of his shoes like broken bones. 

He liked the convenience of a mobile phone. John Watson liked having light at the tips of his fingers whenever he needed it. He didn’t mind the sounds of whispers from other rooms. He hated not knowing exactly what he was looking for. 

John Watson had heard a variety of coughs – chesty coughs, tickling coughs, raw dry hacking coughs. He liked a hard mattress, it was good for his back. John Watson liked passing unnoticed – he did not like it when people were too broken to notice. John Watson did not like that sinking feeling that came with seeing exactly what you didn’t want to but exactly what you had expected. He liked recognising friends – but not hardly recognising them at all. John Watson was tired. Really just – bone tired. Of this. 

The syringe was still lying in his open palm, the length of his arm half off the mattress so the back of his hand rested on the dirty wooden floor. If he moved it too fast he might end up with a splinter – his last tetanus shot was perhaps – 

His heart was beat – beating. Fast. Sherlock had his eyes closed but he could feel everything. He could feel the Erythrocyte blood cells as they effortlessly floated through the channels of his veins. The itch of the air on his skin, touching each single hair and pulling them up, up, up. He could hear the shufflings of the people around him but couldn’t accurately tell how far away they were. 

“Sherlock.”

So familiar and warm. He twitched his fingertips and the empty glass syringe tumbled to the floor. Sherlock tried to open his eyes but it was difficult – nothing was quite working the way it was supposed to. 

Someone is kneeling beside him, there’s a hand on his wrist with two fingers pressed hard to his pulse point. He can hear his heart beat thumping like a door knock but right inside his head. Sherlock hears a murmured hiss and feels a hand at his face touching his cheeks – then a harsh slap and his eyes snap wide. A slow, broken gasp on the inhale. He hasn’t ejected any vomit. He hasn’t taken too much. He swallows whatever saliva has collected in his mouth and moves a shaking hand up to wipe at the line that has drooled from the corner of his mouth. It takes another long moment and a few more unsteady breaths before he realises who’s standing over him. 

He tries so speak. It doesn’t work particularly well. Before he can arrange his thoughts he feels two strong hands push under his armpits, arms around him and then he’s being lifted. The over riding coherent thought in that moment is that he’s never been this close to John Watson, the second is that his clothes are so filthy he can feel them crawling. 

John Watson likes to run. He likes the freedom of not having a limp. He liks being able to maintain some of the strength he had when he first joined the army. He doesn’t mind having to lift people up when they fall down. John Watson isn’t very good at asking for help when he needs it but will get angry the very moment someone else does the same. John Watson supposes he’s a hypocrite in more ways than one. He likes having a car to take them back to Baker Street but he hates asking for favours. John Watson doesn’t like owing people. He loves stumbling up the stairs with someone after a few too many drinks. John loves collapsing through a door and giggling with his eyes bright and a rush of adrenaline. He doesn’t like the way Sherlock’s chest heaves. John Watson does not like the way his body slumps to the floor as soon as they step past the threshold. He does not understand at all. John knows he should take Sherlock to a hospital. John doesn’t. John was tired. Really just – bone tired. Of this. 

The sheets are soft pure cotton, he recognises it as he shifts beneath it. He’s no longer wearing the jeans he had on before but a pair of his soft pyjama bottoms. His feet are bare – the third toe on his left foot throbs. He doesn’t know if it’s bruised or lacerated. Sherlock doesn’t have the strength to check. His head hurts. 

There are finger tips on his inner wrist again – steady, unwavering. He knows his pulse has settled, he doesn’t need John to tell him.

“Almost back to normal.” John sighs.

“I know.” His voice is gravelly. He’s been asleep maybe six hours. 

“We need to talk about this.”

“I wish you’d stop trying.”

It hurts, his muscles are stiff but he turns away, showing John his back. 

“If it happens again – “ John’s voice is weak. “If it happens again then I’m leaving.”

Sherlock isn’t surprised. The bedroom door opens and closes. 

He isn’t sure whether or not he truly believes that John will leave. Sherlock feels bitter – because of everything he’s done, they’ve done together. John asks him often what’s wrong and Sherlock cannot answer. He opens his eyes and looks across the room at the full works of Poe set on his bookshelf, at the lamp which is giving the room it’s warm yellowish glow. He can’t reach to turn it off – John must of moved it in case he knocks it over. His breathing is steady now, after the first hit he tends to smoke a lot but by the third and fifth the presence of mind isn’t quite there. That’s why his throat hurts so much. Why his voice sounds so wrecked. 

He thinks of The Pit and the Pendulum. It had always been his favourite of Poe’s short stories. It was senseless in it’s bleakness. Being trapped. So trapped. 

Sherlock closes his eyes again and imagines his body without the skin and muscle covering it – how the lungs inflate and deflate – how the heart pulses, contacting with each beat. How quickly his whole body would be breaking down. 

How quickly he was breaking down. 

It’s been a long time since he’s cried as hard as he does then. 

 

John Watson enjoys listening to the radio. He likes a range of different music from Bruce Springsteen to Ed Sheeran. John Watson doesn’t mind washing up – he likes the way the hot water feels on his skin. He likes having time to sit and think without the sound of a gun going off or someone huffing when they don’t get their way. He hates not being able to fix things. He wishes he could hear a tantrum. He wishes someone would start shouting or screaming or begging for cigarettes. John cannot read minds. He wishes he could but he’s scared of what he might find. John Watson hates going back on his word. John Watson isn’t sure if he will ever be able to leave. He hates being scared. John Watson was tired. Really just – bone tired. Of this.


	3. An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it's good - it's good.

John Watson appreciates skin, the way it stretches and moves – how it bruises and brightens. He likes how it feels under the touch of his slightly rough fingertips. He likes the taste – freshly showered and still smelling of soap. He enjoys the intake of breath, the sharp uncertainty. John Watson loves being surprised – by a kiss, a groan. He loves gifts – giving and receiving. He desperately craves the sensation of being needed, unequivocally above anyone else. He loves chaos in equal measure to order. He both hates and adores the battle of emotion currently destroying him from the inside. He not so secretly wishes it could be this way all of the time. John Watson hates lapsing into melancholia when a warm body is working so pliantly beneath his own – when the sheets are only half on the bed and he hears his name in that way. John Watson hates jealousy but is painfully guilty of it. He hates addiction but he loves the addict. This addict. John Watson detests feeling – inadequate. Not quite enough. He loves it when his clever man pauses. John takes inexplicable pleasure in halting the thought process for a second and taking every last millimetre of attention. All for himself. John is selfish in so many more ways than he is selfless. This is the only thing that perhaps – he isn’t tired of. 

The air in the room is hot and thick – he’s shaking and aware of it. Aware of everything most of the time. Beyond aware of John in that moment. This is the answer – to all of the questions John has asked him since he returned not quite – nowhere near the same man as when he left. Cocaine is the gateway to a plane of blissful numbness – John Watson is an open floodgate of emotion and uncertainty. Sherlock catches the moment John pauses and says his name softly. He doesn’t want minds wondering down dark paths into forgotten abysses. He feels John’s fingers tug at his hair and he moans. They are both bare from head to toe, their legs slotted between one another – chests pressed close. It doesn’t bother him that his breathing is laboured, or that John’s knee is slightly pinching his skin against the bed. 

They had been arguing - as if they did anything else anymore. They were both bitter – both torn apart. Sherlock could perfectly place the moment they first kissed – two weeks after seeing one another again. He had hoped it would fix him. John would say he didn’t need fixing. They both knew that wasn’t true. 

Sherlock breathes, he runs his long fingers down John’s spine and lets them dance over the curve of his arse. Their erections are trapped between them, both hard and with the slightest movement nudging together to offer sparks of not quite enough pleasure. It holds a promise. It holds desperation – Sherlock understands that when they are like this – John isn’t sad. Sherlock isn’t craving anything but this. An hour – maybe two after the fact and they both know he’ll be gone. Fixated on what he needs. What he can’t give up.

“John.”

Sherlock’s voice turns pathetic, broken. He wants to stop thinking – to be whole for a moment or two. John takes a sharp breath and presses their foreheads together. Sherlock thinks about The Pit and the Pendulum – about impending doom. He almost starts to cry again but the saviour of John’s lips is pressed to his own, as if he knows, as if he was waiting to breathe the sob straight from his throat. 

Sherlock has always been impatient so he reaches down between them so he can arrange things better – so their cocks rub against one another even with the slightest movement. John’s tip is slick – sticky. He brings his fingers up momentarily so he can taste. It’s bitter salt and glorious. 

John Watson isn’t exactly vanilla. John Watson likes what he likes. He likes full lips wrapped around fingers. He loves the sound of wet sucking and the slight gag of a cock pressing a little too hard against the flat of someone’s tongue. John gets carried away. John loves pressing his tongue past lips and properly exploring someone’s mouth. He loves desperate and messy, wet and filthy. He loves sex. He loves the wet folds of a slick cunt. He loves the slick hard presence of a cock pressing against his own – begging entry when he’s on all fours. Being on his knees and looking down at the same aspect of someone else. He loves sick gagging sounds and panting – animalistic clawing. He likes looking down at an open mouth full to the brim with the evidence of his own pleasure. He likes writhing in bed. He likes someone who isn’t afraid to be different. Who knows what he wants and does it – no questions asked. John always though he loved warm curves and he does – but now those curves play juxtaposition to sharp lines and cool pale beauty. He loves warming the skin with his own. John Watson loves knowing that this is his. That in this moment He is his. 

It’s quiet afterwards. He lies on the right side of the bed with John on his left, one arm slung over his face covering his eyes though the room is dark. They don’t talk. Sherlock doesn’t know what to say – until he does. 

“An interlude.”

He hears John clear his throat before he speaks. 

“What?”

“Us. This. Sex. It’s an interlude. A break. As if someone has written in a chapter to allow us a brief reprieve before – “

“Before everything goes to shit again.”

Sherlock nods, he doesn’t know if John sees or not. 

“You make your own decisions. You’re a scientist. A bloody genius. You know that. Don’t go telling me some higher power has you on a path or whatever bullshit you’re going to try and fob off on me this time.”

Sherlock snorts.

“Metaphor. That’s all.”

“Yeah well – I’m not feeling particularly metaphorical right now”

Sherlock feels the rising panic when the bed shifts and John sits up. He hates himself for the show of weakness but grabs at John’s wrist just the same. 

“I would like to pretend – just a little longer.”

He hears the sigh – he feels the moment of hesitation like an air bubble in the blood and sweet relief when John lays back down, when he turns to face him and there’s a strong arm laying across his waist.

“Let’s just pretend then. Until morning.”

Sherlock knows that means – until he slips away. Until the cycle begins again.

“I know you’re tired.”

John laughs softly, Sherlock senses no humour in it.

“You don’t know. For once -I don’t think you have a clue.”


End file.
